Beyond the Spiring Towers
by You-drive-me-nuts-miller
Summary: Their love assured, Killian and Emma are parted by his desire to prove himself worthy, until a new and familiar threat sends them into far more dangerous territory than either had ever imagined... (Sequel to 'Under the Crimson Flag')
1. Prologue

The damp was so invasive, it had taken residence in Killian's bones and he almost doubted he would ever be warm again. Rough sandstone walls seeped moisture from their large pores: water ran down in rivulets - like the cell was crying over its own fate: stuck in this dark, dank hole below ground.

His eyes had adjusted to the lack of light soon enough. The guard who had thrown him into this hell hole had tossed down the worn end of a candle and a soggy box of matches. When he'd finally got a spark to burn, he'd looked around at his prison.

About ten feet square, the floor was a seeping mess of mud and old, rotten straw. The hatch was at least ten feet above him, made of solid oak and bolted, he knew, on the other side by a heavy, iron lock, whose key hung on his jailer's belt.

Satisfied that for the moment he was securely detained, he snuffed out the candle with his hook and lay back against the wall.

It wasn't the worse place he had found himself, that was for sure. He was confident that once his letter of safe passage from King David was verified he would soon be on his way. When he had turned up in King Alasdair's kingdom, he had anticipated some problems.

The dear regent seemed under the impression that he had deflowered his youngest daughter.

Yes, he had gotten her tipsy on wine and snuck back into her bedchamber. Yes, he had kissed her (and maybe a little more-) but her chastity was intact when he had left with a stolen key to her father's study. Killian knew the king kept a chest of gold in his private office, and it was far easier to break into than the royal treasury. One of his easier thefts. A pirate did not limit himself to sea based crime when such easy spoils present themselves.

But when he had arrived with the mostly intact chest of coins in tow and the letter tucked in his jacket, he had made no more than a dozen steps inside the castle gates when he was dragged to the ground and carted off to his current home.

He closed his eyes, deciding some sleep would be advisable. It was a good half day trek back to the where the ship was docked and Smee and his crew were taking shore leave, ready to set sail as soon as he returned.

The past few months had not passed without incident and he knew he had to keep the men onside if he were to complete his plans.

When he had told the newly assembled crew of the purpose of their journey, he had been met with some disbelief. Smee had frowned and cursed beneath his breath and the other men and muttered among themselves until he had assured them of a handsome payment for their time - even he could not sail a ship alone. They'd still eyed him warily as they left the port for the open seas; their suspicions eased a little by the payment of regular wages, but he knew how to handle them (and Smee, loyal as ever, easily came round after a rum fuelled night on their first, brief furlough).

Setting sail, he had plotted a journey to return the most significant items he still possessed, settle a few old scores and collect some treasures he had hidden away for a difficult day. He knew the men thought him mad. Not that he cared. For the first time in so long, he had found something to hold onto. Love. _Emma._

If he were truthful, he still was uncertain with how matters would unfold when he had returned. He knew he had to make some amends for his past deeds. And if he were honest, his time pirating had almost turned into some kind of surreal blur. It had been something he had tumbled into and was deep within before he knew it. He had become a man on the Jolly. He'd never been given a chance to be something else: but here that chance now presented itself, and now he grabbed it eagerly

Still, he pondered how such genteel people as from which Emma came would accept him. He had lain awake at night and ran scenarios for their future through his mind - where would they live? What path would their union take - could they even consider marriage?

He knew not the answers to these troublesome questions. But he knew he loved her and he had to try his best to be worthy.

_**a/n: Thoughts?**_


	2. The Die is Cast

**Finally I found my muse! I hope you enjoy this and are ready for the ride!**

It had descended quickly, the ache of separation. Beginning as a strange, incongruous feeling in the pit of her stomach, the sensation of loss became more keenly felt with every passing hour. Once they had been apart for the duration of a week's length, there was little that could give solace to the pain in her heart. A hollow, unsettled feeling had crept over her, only eased a little by his infrequent letters: always rushed affairs sent during his limited time in populated ports, always cherished and poured over, before being kept in a small wooden writing box that lay on her bedroom bureau.

It was strange, this longing. Even as she slipped back into familiar palace routines, it hung around her, a dense cloud of melancholy flavoring her days. Her smiles did not often reach her eyes nor did her cheerful greetings reach her heart.

Still, even without him, she was stronger and more resilient than ever. The experiences of the previous months had made her wiser to the ways of the world and determined to live an honorable life that mattered; to lead her kingdom one day as best she could. For she had realized that honor and duty gave a life substance, as much as much as love and family gave it purpose. But she couldn't deny the future she saw was with him by her side.

She ached to touch him, to hear his voice or even to just catch a glimpse of his face. Yet cruelly, she had no likeness of him: no painting or drawing to look over. But the memories imprinted on her mind - of his expression when he spoke of his love for her and the ardor of his words as he promised to prove himself - made her heart ache in sorrow and swell in happiness in equal measure.

They belonged, she realized; two uneven halves of a strange whole, thrown together by chance, bonded by an unexpected love, their pasts as different as can be.

But now the past no longer mattered, only the future.

And her future was him, as she was his.

/

"We must act with haste," the queen sighed as she paced the floor of King David's library. Her quick footsteps echoed harshly against the silence of the room: the air thick with tension.

Emma and her father sat in front of the glowing embers of the fire, both somewhat lost in thought. She watched quietly as the last few flames licked against the charred wooden logs, still reeling from the package they had received an hour earlier.

"Can we be certain it is from this pirate? Emma said that he died…"

"We thought he died," Snow retorted as she paced towards the pair, "The pirate strangled him, his ship was aflame…"

The queen sank to sit on the armchair nearest the fire. Emma, still bristling from her mother's referral to Killian as 'the pirate', folded her arms tighter around her waist. Her parents had been bickering over what to do for the past hour. Once both ladies had collected themselves from the shock of the unexpected 'gift', they had made haste to the king's library, both blindly hoping he could provide some much needed advice.

The bloodied carcass of the swan lay in front of father and daughter, the pure white feathers of the bird streaked with berry-colored blood where the dagger had pierced its flesh. They had not removed the blade yet, cautious of any other traps that the pirate may have left, the chest it was delivered in had been carried carefully and left mostly undisturbed. If the obvious wounds were ignored, the animal looked almost peaceful, nestled against the hay in which it was packed. As a sign, it was indeed an effective one.

Emma had felt almost invisible since she had entered the library. Her mother had explained the situation, dismissing her attempts at adding further details. Frustration burned inside her. Still she was being treated as a child. Taking a deep breath, she tried to still those feelings by pressing her short nails into her palms whilst clenching her fists. Slowly she stood and walked closer to the fire, feeling a sudden chill overcome her.

After a moment, she noticed their voices had lowered, Emma stilled her breathing as she tried to tune in to what her parents were saying.

"How do we know he wasn't part of this? Perhaps this is a ruse to extract money? Maybe this Blackbeard and the pirate are in this to-"

Emma spun on her heels and faced her parents, "His name is _Killian,_ and how dare you accuse him of such things? After all he has done for us?" Her voice was shaking, "We both saw what happened Mother, both of us were on the deck of that ship. Blackbeard was unconscious, we watched the vessel burn…"

Soft sobs that she had been holding back suddenly rose in her throat. She wasn't exactly sure why she was crying. Yes, there was an element of shock and fear - she had never really been threatened before, well, at least not in this manner, and her instinctual reaction was to become frozen with fear. Yet it was more than that. In all that had happened to her during her time on The Jolly Roger and after, she had never taken the time to let herself react fully to each moment. Each episode of violence or fear she had brushed aside as more urgent matters took precedence. But now, home, protected from the world, these memories were vivid, giving lucidity to her nightmares: the ones she had when not dreaming of him.

Him. _Killian._

Hearing her parents suggest that he could betray them - _her _- so easily for such a reason as gold and riches pierced her heart: the place where she held him close. Where she kept her love waiting. Counting the days until he returned.

"Emma, I-" her father began.

"I don't want to hear it, Father. I know how you really feel about him. What you keep hidden from me," she chuckled darkly.

"No, darling, that's not it at all," her mother tried, rising and walking towards her daughter. "We know what he means to you and-"

Emma flashed her mother a glance that halted her steps. She saw the flicker of pain that made her features crease. Their newly rekindled relationship was still fragile and emerging; neither wanted to halt that process so the two warily eyed each other as the king moved to stand between them.

"Right now, we need to remain united. I'm sorry for what I said - I just feel we need to explore every avenue. Perhaps this is not even of the pirate's doing - perhaps someone with knowledge of our situation is playing some kind of trick."

"But who would so such a thing?" Emma wrung her hands before grabbing the brass fire poker and jostling the dying embers, taking out her frustration and causing charred flakes of wood to cling to the bottom of her skirts. "And who knows of our dealings with him? Aside from ourselves and Killian, the numbers are few and I cannot see any of those having the means or inclination to engage in such things."

Using the point of the poker, she stabbed the tip through a large chunk of wood. Shattering open, it revealed the glowing embers inside, orange and red, merging and shifting beneath the surface. Just like she, the hardened shell hid a complex picture - intense and imperceptible to the naked eye.

"I agree it does seem unlikely, Emma," her mother soothed, running her palm along Emma's silk covered arm. She flinched at first, before softening to the mothering touch. It was still a foreign sensation; though one she craved with greater frequency.

"We need to find him."

"Who?" the king asked, his eyes lingering on the slaughtered swan, his face paling a little at the sight.

"Killian," Emma whispered, "He knows Blackbeard. How he operates, where he hides… With him, we can discover this man and end this situation before it has begun."

"Let us not be hasty," her father replied, joining the pair at the fireplace, "Right now the safest place for you is the castle. I will increase the guards, assign you a private attachment. We will restrict you and your mother to the keep while we investigate matters further."

Emma hung the poker back on the small stand from which she took it. Reaching down, she brushed away some of the ashes. They smeared against the silk, leaving charcoal colored smudges.

"And so I just hide? How long for? A week? A month? A _year_?"

With every word her voice became louder. She was angry. At Blackbeard for threatening her. At her father for suggesting she was some damsel in distress.

And perhaps, a little at Killian for leaving her.

"Emma, your father is right. We need to be cautious. I can't risk losing you again."

"You didn't seem to find it so hard last time," she retorted, immediately regretting her words as her mother's mouth pursed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

Snow raised her hand as if to brush of her concern, "You are anxious, and I understand that. But we are royalty and we have procedures and things to think of that make snap reactions unwise."

Straightening her back, the princess reluctantly nodded.

Instinct had taught her to fight back. Being away from the royal court had allowed her to develop and form her own ideas. From necessity or invention, she had learned to think beyond the laws and constraints in which she had grown up. And it had changed her, materially, into something more than a sheltered princess. It had made her want greater charge of her own destiny.

"Fine. I will agree to your conditions, if you will accept one of my own. You will send two of your personal guard to the pirate port, Langston. They will make discreet enquiries as to the fate of his ship and report back."

Nodding, the king gave his daughter a small smile. "That seems a wise course of action."

Emma stalked over to the crate, picking up the lid she slammed it shut. The point had been made, the die cast. She no longer needed to see Blackbeard's message.

"And I will send for Killian. We need him."

_I need him, _her heart echoed.

"If that's what you want, it will be done with haste."

Closing her eyes, Emma turned to sit again. The remaining energy seemed to seep from her, leaving her bone tired and dizzy.

A moment later, her mother sat down too, taking her hands within her own and pressing a warm kiss against her flushed cheek. "Fear not my love, we will get to the bottom of this."

And Emma didn't doubt that they would, she just feared it may come too late.

/

A week passed by uneventfully.

There were books to read, meetings to be held, routines to follow. Emma found the restrictions to be less imposing than she had imagined. In fact, she was almost able to forget why she was not to leave the thick curtain wall of the castle. Almost.

Visiting her horse, Honey, was some solace. Slipping on breeches and helping the stable hands muck out and feed the animals was one of the most freeing experiences she was able to indulge in. It was almost like being back at sea. Almost.

Recently she had found herself missing the cool, salty air and the freedom of being within an expanse of ocean, with no end in sight. She hadn't expected to pine for her life at sea, well, at least not so much.

Riding Honey around the perimeter of the wall was at least a little exercise for them both. She had made acquaintance with most of the guards, making time to learn their names and little bits about their personal lives from their conversations. Previously, it had never occurred to her to do such a thing, but living without the decorum of court life had taught her the value of such relationships.

There was, indeed, another element to her daily rides. She had been careful to time them differently each day. As she rode, she noted the patterns of deployment along the gates and towers - the times of shift changes, the guards who were most amenable to her. She wasn't, perhaps, entirely aware of this, happening as it was in the recesses of her mind. But there it was, ticking away, collating information.

On this day, dusk was already approaching as she returned to the stables. Swinging from the saddle, she handed the reins to a stablehand and gave Honey's glossy mane a rub.

"Emma, I've been looking for you."

She smiled when she saw her father approach. He still looked so youthful, despite being about to enter his sixth decade. His thick hair still held its golden hue that she had inherited and his wide set shoulders were strong and imposing; he still practiced with the sword every day.

"Father," he stopped and she kissed his cheek lightly, "What can I do for you?"

"A walk?" he asked.

Nodding, she looped her arm in his outstretched one, tugging off her riding gloves as they headed in the direction of the north garden.

The air was sweet with the scent of roses and honeysuckle. This had always been a favorite place of hers growing up, with its hanging vines and small sculptures hidden amongst the plants.

"Have you had a good day?"

Her question was light and carefree, though she was hoping the true reason for his seeking her out would have more substance.

"Somewhat," he began, gesturing to a stone bench where they could watch the sun setting over the castle wall, "I actually received a letter."

There was a thud in her chest as her stomach dropped.

Killian?

Blackbeard?

"Oh," she swallowed, sitting gingerly while toying with her gloves.

"It was Anya's father, he is demanding resolution to our…_situation_."

"Oh," Emma sighed, disappointed, but also perhaps a little relieved. In fact, over the past week she had forgotten the fact that her father was still technically married to two women. "And?" she asked.

"And…" he began, running his palm over his chin, "He is right. The matter has lingered for too long."

"What do the scholars say?"

"They are not in agreement. A first marriage always stands under our laws, unless the spouse has been missing for five years or more."

"And Mother was gone for longer…" she whispered, feeling a knot of something painful in her gut.

"Yes," he nodded, "But what complicates matters is that royal marriage is governed not by common law, but more ancient decree."

"And?" she asked, holding her breath as she waited for the answer.

"And there is no reference to such a situation in the old scrolls. The closest we have been able to find was from over two hundred years ago, where a duke was tricked into marrying twice when plied with fire wine."

"Which would make him a bigamist, surely!"

"The passage relating the outcome was a little damaged, but as far as can be seen, neither woman was willing to give up their claim to him and they lived together as a trio at his estate."

Gasping, Emma swung her head to look at her father, "You are not suggesting-"

"No!" he cried, before lowering his voice, "Of course not. But I think it means that the decision lies with me."

"Surely it's not much of a decision to make-" she began, balling the leather gloves in her fists to release a little of the tension growing between her shoulders.

"It's complicated. I made a vow - twice. I stand by my vows."

"You made it to my mother first," Emma replied, squinting a little as the sun reached the edge of the wall. The light became blinding, splintering out into a starburst of rays as the world around it became black.

"It's complicated," he repeated.

"So you brought me here to tell me what - that you have already chosen? That my mother is to be turned out? Forgotten? Shunned-"

He grabbed her arm and she started, looking up into his mirror image eyes, the same green shade as her own.

"I will always - always - love your mother…"

"But not enough," Emma whispered, shrugging out of his embrace to stand. "I'm cold Father, I must retire to my chambers."

With quick steps, she vaulted towards the wooden door that led into the keep. Behind her she could hear the king calling out her name. But she ignored him and continued.

She wasn't ready to hear him say the words she dreaded. She feared her reaction when her ideal of love was shattered before her eyes. Yes, a faulted ideal it was, but still, it gave her hope that two parted loves could be reunited.

She would think about this later.

Yes, later.

/

There was a clatter. It sounded like a metal dish landing on a stone floor.

Her fingers wrapped around the small dagger she had taken to keeping beneath her pillow, withdrawing it and holding it aloft as she turned the dial of her lamp and adjusted her eyes to the small amount of illumination.

She slipped her feet to the floor. They were bare and the stone was cold when she reached the edge of the woolen rug that ran under her bed. Her shift had slipped over her shoulder and she tugged it higher, the bite of coolness in the air making her shiver.

"Hello?" she called out.

There was no response.

Edging her way towards the door that led to the antechamber, she held her breath. There was always a guard at her door. The night was still and quiet, he should be able to hear her - and certainly to have heard the commotion that woke her.

"Hello?"

Swallowing heavily, she undid the heavy iron bolt and stepped into the vestibule. Opposite was the door to her living chamber, to her left the door to the hallway.

Silence.

Her feet made a soft patterning noise as she walked.

She tightened her fingers around the silver blade of the dagger.

"Tomkins? Walters?"

There was still no reply.

Reaching the door, she turned the key. The lock made a clunking sound as the mechanism fell into place. She paused, waiting for something to happen.

It didn't. Gingerly, she rotated the handle.

The hallway was black. The torches that lit the length of it had been snuffed out and there was the scent of singed oil in the air.

Swinging her lantern in front of her, she called out, "Hello?"; though this time with a degree less confidence than earlier.

At first she saw nothing.

The lantern was swinging and the light it gave low. She tried to twist the metal dial to increase the light, but instead it began to flicker more wildly.

A step further into the hall was accompanied by an increase in her heart rate.

Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Her guard was missing.

And then she saw it. A trickle of blood that turned into a smear - as if something had been dragged along the carpet. She picked her way carefully as she followed the trail, stepping to avoid the saturated red patches.

Then there was a foot. Twisted at an unnatural angle on the leg on which it stood, she let out a little cry, recognizing the boot as that of the army - and of her guard.

Hand shaking, she lifted the lantern closer. The body was soaked in blood. Her nose prickled at the metallic scent it left in the air. A sloppy, pink mass was spilling out onto the floor from the stomach of the victim. With horror, she realized that it was the intestines. The gut had been cut and the contents pulled out.

She pressed her arm across her nose as she raised the lamp to the face of the body. Her heart fell.

"Walters," she sobbed, bringing her free hand to her mouth as tears started to fall. He was so young. Not yet twenty. But so brave. He had already served in two campaigns for the army - her father had high hopes for him. And now…

Higher she lifted the light, until she could see the wall behind where he was slumped. At first, she thought the blood upon it was just random smears and splashes, originating from the violence of the murder. But then shapes became letters and the letter became a word. Stepping back, she grimaced.

_REVENGE._

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